Echoes and Bones

It used to be glossy. You can tell. Now it's dull, and peeling away from the wall.

Some of the words are hard to read, either because the paper is torn, or because someone (actually several someones) have been here with marker pens and spray paint. In some places, furious hands have dug so deep with pens they've gouged the paper. The brickwork shows through underneath.

It doesn't help that there's not a lot of light. There used to be an electric bulb, unreliable and flickery, and a sickly yellow. The last one left unsmashed by rebellious stones. Even that has stopped working now.

It's been a long time since a train rattled past. The tracks are rusty. Up here on the platform, the benches are covered in animal droppings. They used to avoid man-made structures, but the threatening stink has long since faded.

A handsome face has been grinning toothily here for a very long time. He has endured the indignity of having several of his pearly-whites coloured in black. He has been given fangs, as well. And horns. Someone has scrawled MONSTERS across his face.

Someone else has written MURDERERS under that.

Red ink tracks down from his eyes Red has been a popular choice for these artists. His hands have received a solid coating, and his lab coat has been defaced with it.

He's still smiling, though.

Embazoned across the top, “Your Health, Our Priority.” "Health" has been spray-painted over, with the H wrangled to look like a D and the "L" obscured. The letters still show through. Barely.

Behind him, a faded city skyline, forever erupting in an optimistic dawn.

At the bottom, the logo of Vyrexyn Pharmaceuticals. There's some words it's impossible to make out, and then, "the future of immunity."

Near the curling corner, someone has written, "We were the test".

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There's more grass here, just back from the main road. That's nice. There's a creak and a rattle. The wind, or maybe some passing animal has caused a shopping trolley to shift. What's it doing here, next to the canal? It doesn't matter. In this situation, theres always a shopping trolley.

Silence falls. Broken only by the steady plink plink of water droplets plopping into it. The sound is coming from the nearby underpass.

It's a gloomy, grimy, and slimy sort of place.

The same message has been pasted in enormous yellow and black messages on the walls:

RESPONSIBLE CITIZENS GET THE VACCINE

STOP THE SPREAD

SAVE LIVES.

In other, far less official-looking lettering, the lives and deaths of people have been told around the edges.

She never woke up.

My dad lasted a week after you put that stuff in him.

6 miscarriages, 1 stillbirth

We were the test

YOU WILL PAY

don't know long I've got you've killed me who's going to look after my kids

VILE

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No grass here. Grey grey grey.

It's a town, but it's been ravaged. You could almost think by war. But time and neglect can be just as brutal in their own way.

A large notice has been put up on the wall of a stately-looking building (probably a bank). It's been done hastily, because it's lopsided, and one corner hasn't been stuck down properly. It flaps loose.

There's a large arrow, and FOOD DISTRIBUTION CENTRES THIS WAY.

Further along, another sign. Same size, same lettering, same arrow. Same style. Which is to say, none. Not to speak of.

A list of professions that are exempted from the STAY HOME instruction, and therefore also from receiving aid.

YOU MUST BRING A VALID ID CARD is written at the top, and again at the bottom.

There's no anger on these, no indignation. You can almost hear the shuffling feet of the hungry and beaten down.

Except you can't. Because you're not here. No one is.

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